


The Rose Thief and the Priest

by ImprobableDreams900



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canterbury - Freeform, Churches, Fluff, Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2017, Horticulture, Human AU, M/M, Romance, Roses, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: When horticulturist A. J. Crowley sees a rare breed of rose in a churchyard, he decides he won't stop until he can get a cutting—even if he has to go through the church's stuffy priest to do so.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bravinto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravinto/gifts).



> Written for the 2017 GO Holiday Exchange for bravinto, and originally posted on the GOHE dreamwidth page in four parts, starting with https://go-exchange.dreamwidth.org/202801.html.
> 
> Thanks to my betas, doctortreklock and spinner12.

There wasn’t so much as a smudge of black on its lush green leaves.

A. J. Crowley leaned closer, staring between the tops of the metal rods of the fence in front of him and struggling to contain his excitement.

The bush was beautiful, with full, spreading branches and dozens— _dozens_ —of large, perfectly formed rose blossoms. They were just beginning to bloom, petals unfolding into the midsummer air, a delicate peach hue blushed violet. And, perhaps most remarkably, the bush looked healthy and thriving, without even a hint of the black spot that had ravaged so many of England’s roses in the uncommonly warm, wet spring.

Crowley’s chest bumped into the fence and he shook himself slightly, trying to check his excitement. He didn’t really know anything about this plant, he reminded himself sternly; maybe it was one of those modern cultivars, or an infertile triploid.

He continued to stare between the tops of the fence’s bars, though, willing his eyesight to sharpen.

_It could be a William Lobb_ , he thought to himself hopefully. _It could be a beautiful, disease-resistant tetraploid old rose…or it could be a Hyde Hall, in which case I might as well just pop down to the local greenhouse with a tenner._

Crowley narrowed his eyes, squinting vainly at the bush in the hopes of eking some further information from it. When none was forthcoming, he sighed and took a step away from the fence.

_Only one way to find out, I suppose_.

Crowley swept his eyes along the line of the black, wrought iron fence, stopping when his gaze reached a small stone church. He glanced back at the rose bush, tucked away in the fenced-off cemetery, and then returned his attention to the church.

He made his way closer, taking in the large wooden sign welcoming him to St Mildred’s. He noted the service times—only Sunday morning, it looked like—and approached the main door cautiously.

Crowley tried the wrought iron handle and the door swung open under his hand with a faint creak. Inside, the space opened up into the nave of the church, short rows of pews marching towards the altar. It was a rather small church, with whitewashed walls, a straightforward beam ceiling, and a handful of electric lights gleaming from chandeliers where once there would have been candles.

Crowley closed the door behind him and took a few hesitant steps into the space, stopping at the back row of pews and casting his gaze around. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself; he’d always felt a little unwelcome in churches and unsure how he should conduct himself while inside them.

No one was in sight, and it was very still and quiet. To his right, the nave terminated in a wall marking the edge of the building, but to his left it was bordered by a row of Gothic arches with an aisle beyond it. It looked like there were a couple of doors leading to other rooms off the aisle, so Crowley headed that way, his footfalls seeming too loud in the space.

He found a door marked ‘private’ and knocked on it quietly. After a long moment, he put his ear to the wooden surface, but he didn’t hear anything besides his own heartbeat, seeming oddly loud in the quiet.

There was another, slightly larger door also marked ‘private,’ so he moved to that one next and repeated his knock. This time, there was a faint scuffle from somewhere behind the door.

Crowley hastily took a step back and arranged his features into a pleasant expression, nervously adjusting the messenger bag resting on his hip. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a rather unkempt-looking, slightly overweight middle-aged man wearing the attire of a retired university philosophy professor.

“Hello,” Crowley said brightly, sticking out his hand. “I’m Anthony Crowley. I’m passing through the area; I was just admiring your lovely rose bush outside.”

For a moment the man just blinked at Crowley, and then he cautiously shook his hand, dragging the door mostly closed behind him. “Pleasure.”

Crowley waited for the man to introduce himself in return, but he wasn’t forthcoming.

“I was, er, just looking at your rose bush in the cemetery,” Crowley repeated, gesturing vaguely in the correct direction. “Does it always have so many blossoms?”

“I believe so, yes,” the man said, his accent crisp and intelligent. “Sorry, who did you say you were?”

“Ah, sorry, I’m a horticulturist,” Crowley supplied, putting on his best smile. It wasn’t unusual for people to be confused by his motives, and he’d found that being honest with them helped put them at their ease. “I run a small nursery and garden in London, and I specialise in roses. I couldn’t get a very good look at that bush you have outside, but it looks like it might be a rare wild breed. With your permission, I’d like to take a closer look and maybe take a small cutting.”

The man’s expression cleared. “Ah, I understand. Well, dear boy, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Crowley felt the excitement in his chest falter. “No?”

“Well, you see, strictly speaking they’re not mine to give away.”

Crowley’s smile faded. “But they’re in the cemetery—doesn’t that belong to this church?”

The man gave Crowley a kind smile. “Yes, but I’m not the person you’d need to talk to.”

“Ah, okay,” Crowley said, brightening a little. “Where can I find the priest?”

The man coloured slightly, the delicate shade of pink suiting him oddly well. “You’ve found the priest, I’m afraid, but I’m only here on a temporary basis. The main vicar is on sabbatical, and I’m filling in for him while he’s gone.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, doing a mental once-over of the new obstacle in his path. He remembered the beautiful, blight-free leaves of the rose bush. “Well, do I need to get his permission, then? Do you have his contact information?”

“He’s on sabbatical,” the man repeated. “I’m not allowed to give you his information.”

Crowley blinked at him. “ _Really?_ ”

The man looked apologetic. “His decision. One hears the Lord’s voice best in times of solitude.”

Crowley snorted before abruptly remembering where he was and who he was talking to. He tried to pass it off as a cough, but rather poorly. He noticed the priest staring at him and quickly diverted his gaze. “Sorry.”

“No matter,” the man said. “In any case, I don’t think I can be of help to you. Now if you don’t mind, I have important matters to be attending to…”

Crowley felt his chance of acquiring a disease-resistant William Lobb slipping away from him. “I can reimburse you,” he said quickly. “If it _is_ a rare breed, I’ll pay you for your trouble.”

The man, already turning back towards the room he had come from, stopped and glanced back at him in amusement. “I _am_ a priest, you know.”

Crowley tried to follow him, ears beginning to burn, but the man was quicker, pushing the door open and already slipping inside. “I didn’t—I mean—” Crowley began pathetically.

“Good day,” the man said, and the door snapped shut behind him.

Crowley stared at the closed door in a mix of surprise and despair. He took another step forward, intending on knocking again and explaining himself better, but his ears were still burning and he felt like he’d made enough of a fool of himself as it was.

So instead he turned, striding out of the silent church and back into the bright sunlight. He drifted automatically towards the fence, looking out at the rose bush.

_Maybe it’s not a William Lobb_ , he mused. _Maybe it’s a Charles de Mills._ Internally moaning at the prospect of letting such a rare breed pass through his hands, Crowley wrenched his gaze from the bush and back to the narrow road leading into Canterbury.

After a moment, he glanced back at the church and bit the inside of his mouth. He knew he ought to respect the priest’s refusal, but he also knew that he’d never forgive himself if this turned out to be the horticultural find of his career, and he let it slip through his fingers.

 

~*~

 

The next morning, Crowley walked from his hastily-booked hotel room back to St Mildred’s Church.

The front door was unlocked again, so he let himself in. As had been the case before, there was no one in the church; not surprising, given that it was a Saturday morning. This time, however, before he reached the door marked ‘private’ he saw that the priest he’d talked to yesterday was standing with his back to him, straightening some leaflets on a table.

Part of Crowley had been hoping it would be someone else—both for the sake of his ego and the fact that someone else might be more flexible—but that didn’t seem to be in the cards.

“Good morning,” Crowley said as he approached, the priest glancing over his shoulder as he neared. The priest was wearing subtly different attire than the previous day; Crowley thought he had switched jumpers but that was about it. His hair was looking a little uncombed as well, a blond-gold mess of swirling curls.

Crowley opened his mouth to start on his prepared speech, but the priest spoke first.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

Slightly put off, Crowley scrambled to collect the mental threads of his speech. “I—er—thought we got off on the wrong foot the other day.”

A wry smile tugged at the corner of the priest’s mouth, which Crowley took as a good sign.

“I apologise for my behaviour, but I really am interested in your rose. Some of the old, wild breeds are very rare, and could die out if undiscovered. They’re also invaluable for crossing, which helps produce superior breeds for the market. As I said before, I can pay you—”

The priest waved away his words, looking mildly amused as he noisily shuffled some fliers together. “Dear boy, it’s not me you need to convince.”

Crowley began to grow a little exasperated, eyes flicking between the pamphlets advertising an organ recital and the priest’s face. “But you’re the one in charge, aren’t you? And it’s just a bush. I’ll take a very small sample, so there won’t be a significant aesthetic impact—”

“My dear, it’s simply not my decision to make.”

“You said the regular priest was on sabbatical,” Crowley ploughed on, mentally pausing to double-check that the priest had just called him _my dear_. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

The priest thought for a moment, hands pausing in their task. “Two, maybe two and a half weeks? Yes, that’s about right.”

Crowley’s hopes flagged. He wasn’t running a very tight schedule himself, but the RHS London Rose Show was in a little over a week, and he had business lined up in London after that.

“Are you sure there’s nothing we can do in the meantime?” Crowley asked hopefully, turning his gaze back to the priest as he glanced over at him. The man’s eyes were blue, a very bright, lively blue that complimented his hair. Currently, they were softening in sympathy.

“I’m afraid not.”

“But,” Crowley protested, feeling his opportunity slipping away again, “can’t we work something out? I’m sure the church can use some funds; I’ll make a generous donation. Or maybe we can work something out just between the two of us.”

The man finished with the pamphlets and turned back to Crowley, looking amused. “It was Anthony, right?”

“I—yes,” Crowley said, surprised the priest had remembered his name. “You can call me Crowley, though. I don’t think I caught your name?”

“Aziraphale Adolphus,” the priest supplied. “Frankly, there’s no good shortening for any of it, so you can call me whatever you like.”

“I—er—okay.” _Adolphus_ sounded a little too close to _Adolf_ for Crowley’s liking, so he mentally shifted his attention to _Aziraphale_. “It’s an unusual name,” he said lamely. The priest probably heard that a lot.

“I’m named after an angel,” Aziraphale said by way of explanation. “But, now, _Crowley_ …” Aziraphale turned and put a friendly hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’re completely well-intentioned, but I really must insist that no amount of bribery is going to win me to your cause.”

“It’s not—not _bribery_ ,” Crowley protested, hastily trying to think of some other way to frame it. “Think of it as payment for goods provided.”

“But they are not my goods to provide,” Aziraphale insisted, walking towards the front door of the church and drawing Crowley after him, arm now light around his shoulders.

“Then at least let me look at the bush,” Crowley tried. “Maybe I’m mistaken, and it’s just a common cultivar. Then I’ll be on my merry way and we can both sleep at night.”

“Dear boy, I don’t think the non-possession of a rose is going to keep you up at night.”

They were almost at the church doors now, and it was painfully obvious that Aziraphale intended on steering Crowley outside and leaving him there.

“Rose cultivation is my life,” Crowley tried, exaggerating not as much as he would have liked; his London flat played host to far more plants than people. “I’ve been studying them for over a decade. It would really mean a lot to me if you’d help me out.”

“Would if I could,” Aziraphale said as they reached the door. The priest pulled the door open and all but propelled Crowley outside. “It’s a matter of principle, you understand.”

“Please—” Crowley began, turning back to Aziraphale.

“Sorry,” the priest said apologetically, and closed the door in his face.

For the second time, Crowley found himself gaping at the closed surface of a door while being not quite certain how it had happened.

After a moment, he turned away, eyes falling on the lone gate to the fenced cemetery. It was tucked up right next to the church, but appeared to be out of sight of any of the windows.

Crowley crossed to it, discreetly glanced around the deserted lane, and pulled on the gate. It shifted a fraction of an inch and then caught. Crowley frowned and looked down at it, tugging on the gate as he identified the lock keeping it from swinging open. To his surprise, it was a combination padlock.

He dropped his hand to it, tugging pathetically on the band of iron keeping him from the rose bush. “Who even locks a cemetery anyway?” he muttered to himself.

After another ineffective tug on the gate, Crowley gave up and started back down the lane. Halfway to where the path vanished around a line of trees, he paused and looked over at the cemetery. The fence around it was unusually high, but it wasn’t much higher than his shoulder. Crowley’s gaze shifted from the wrought iron bars to the shape of the rose bush behind it, blooms broad and bright, and a plan began to form in his mind.

 

~*~

 

Crowley had never by any stretch of the imagination considered himself graceful, and he was beginning to remember why.

He’d managed to get his hands on two wooden crates from a street vendor selling apples, and was currently balanced on one, holding the other above his head with one hand while his other rested paranoidly on the messenger bag at his side holding his equipment.

It was a little past midnight, the air cold and promising rain, the stars blotted out with curtains of undulating clouds. He had placed the first crate right beside the fence around the cemetery at St Mildred’s, aiming to toss the other crate over the fence so he could use it as a step up during his exit from the cemetery.

Now with the top of the fence around his navel area, Crowley carefully leaned over the fence and dropped the second crate as soundlessly into the grass on the other side as he could. It made a faint plopping noise as it contacted with the ground, and somewhere a bird called, but otherwise it was quiet.

Crowley trained his eyes on the dark shape of the church not far away, but there was no sign of movement. Crowley returned his attention to the patch of ground beneath him on the other side of the fence and carefully started pulling himself over the top.

Crowley had never climbed a fence before, and it showed. The vertical rails extended past the top horizontal, forming a row of pointed metal stakes that caught on Crowley’s trousers and stabbed into his legs as he struggled to find a safe place to put his weight.

When he was halfway over the fence, sweating and twisted into a position a contortionist would have been proud of, Crowley began to have serious second thoughts about this brilliant plan of his.

Shortly thereafter, he shifted his weight a little too far forward and pitched off the edge. He didn’t have far to fall but still hit the ground hard, his hip and shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as he dropped into the grass.

At the same moment, there was a loud rustling noise and something small and dark flashed past him.

“Bless it,” Crowley hissed as he regained his breath, head spinning a little as he started to pick himself up off the ground, side smarting. He raised his head and saw a dark streak shoot between the crooked tombstones, through what must have been a small gap in the fence, and past a low stone building near the back of the cemetery, adjacent to the church. An automatic light came to life as the shape—probably a cat—darted out of sight.

“Stupid animal,” Crowley muttered under his breath as he made his way to his feet, wincing. _Stupid me_ , he added to himself.

Once Crowley had gained his feet, he rubbed some grass off his cheek as his gaze found the rose bush. He moved towards it immediately, eyes struggling to pick out any details in the low light. William Lobb and Charles de Mills were still definitely on the table, though he thought the blooms had been a little more orange than either of those old rose species.

Crowley had only taken two steps towards the bush, his excitement beginning to overcome his misgivings about this adventure, when the door of the building with the automatic light swung open, spilling more light across the cemetery.

Crowley ducked instinctively, swearing under his breath and diving behind the nearest object large enough to hide him—a scraggly, rather misshapen bramble. Crowley tucked himself into a sitting position behind it, casting a worried glance in the direction of the crate he’d tossed over the fence, lying half in the shadow of a tombstone but still very much in sight.

Crowley held his breath, listening to the quiet whisper of the wind and straining to hear the rustle of footsteps through the grass. After a long few minutes, he risked a glance around the edge of the bramble. The stone building at the rear of the cemetery was dark, door closed but automatic light still on.

There was a distant clank of metal and an eerie creaking noise, and Crowley’s head snapped around. He realised belatedly that whoever it was must have walked around and now let themselves in through the cemetery gate. _Fuck_.

Crowley glanced behind himself, searching desperately for a better place to hide, the bramble providing scant protection at best.

But then he could hear footsteps approaching, and it was too late anyway. Heart hammering, Crowley tucked his knees up to his chest and hoped weakly that whoever it was would just do a quick circuit, decide the disturbance had only been an animal, and leave again.

The grass in front of Crowley brightened as the beam of a torch swept along it, followed a moment later by a pair of legs. The light shifted into Crowley’s eyes as its owner came to a stop.

“Hi,” Crowley said lamely.

There was a sigh. “ _Really_ , dear boy?”

Crowley felt a faint surge of relief at learning the identity of his discoverer—the priest seemed likely to let him off easy—mixed with a surge of embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he offered.

Aziraphale sighed but the torch shifted out of Crowley’s eyes and was replaced by a hand. Crowley took it gratefully and the priest helped him to his feet.

“Are you hurt? I know the fence is rather high.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley mumbled, brushing half-decayed leaves and bits of soil off his arm. “Who even builds such a tall fence around a cemetery?”

“There was a problem with graffiti a few years ago,” Aziraphale supplied.

Crowley grunted.

“You have a hotel, I presume?” the priest asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s get you back there, then.” Aziraphale directed his torch in the direction of the gate, the light reflecting eerily off the tombstones. Crowley, eyes still adjusting after being momentarily blinded, noticed that his discoverer was fully dressed.

“Do you live over there, then?” he asked, trudging after Aziraphale as he started off through the grass. “What were you even doing up?”

“It’s the vicarage, so I’m staying there while I’m here,” Aziraphale explained. “And I was working on a sermon.”

Crowley frowned. “For the service? Isn’t that tomorrow morning?”

“I was a little late getting a start.”

Crowley, remembering the priest’s claims of busy-ness earlier, smirked. “Understandable.”

Aziraphale huffed but didn’t say anything else as they reached the gate. He unlocked it and waved Crowley through.

Crowley ducked his head but walked through meekly. He came to a stop on the other side, rubbing at his arm again, this time because of the cold. Aziraphale started locking the gate behind them.

“You’re not going to—er—press charges, are you?” Crowley asked nervously.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Aziraphale said calmly, the combination lock snapping closed in his hand.

“Thanks,” Crowley said, feeling the embarrassment of being caught beginning to really set in. “It—er—it won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not,” Aziraphale said mildly, turning away from the gate. “I won’t have people injuring themselves on my property.”

“I—er,” Crowley started in surprise.

“Property under my care,” Aziraphale clarified a moment later. “Strictly speaking it’s not mine at all, given that that was what caused this kerfuffle in the first place.”

Crowley restrained himself to a nod, shifting _kerfuffle_ out of the list of words he thought he’d never hear pronounced outside of Uni.

“In any case,” Aziraphale continued briskly, sounding a little flustered himself, “do you need any help getting back to your hotel?”

“Hm—oh, no, I’ll be fine,” Crowley said, already mentally cringing at the idea of being chaperoned back into the city.

“Get some rest,” Aziraphale said kindly. “You’re welcome to come to the service tomorrow if I manage to cobble together any sort of sermon.”

“I’m not really one for religion,” Crowley evaded. “Bit of a touchy subject in my family.”

“Well, you’re still welcome to come nonetheless.”

Crowley nodded, fixing his eyes on the wall of the church behind Aziraphale and wondering dismally when this embarrassing night would be over.

“Take care,” Aziraphale said, raising a hand to wave him off.

“Thanks. Er. You too.” Ears burning again, Crowley hastily turned and made his escape, starting down the lane at his fastest pace and trying not to limp while he did so, leg still smarting.

By the time he reached his hotel, he was stiff all over but luckily his ego seemed to have taken the brunt of the bruising. As he climbed the stairs to his room, a small part of him wondered idly why he cared so much what Aziraphale thought of him anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Securing a sample of the rose bush, Crowley decided the next morning as he stirred his tea and wondered absently if Aziraphale had finished his sermon, was going to require a more refined approach than he had taken so far. Despite Aziraphale’s insistence that he was not at liberty to let Crowley take a sample, it was perfectly clear that the priest was indeed _capable_ of physically granting his request, were he so inclined. Crowley might have tried to seek out someone else who worked at the church, but he had seen neither hide nor hair of any such persons, and he didn't know if they'd have access to the cemetery anyway. So if the straightforward approaches he'd tried with Aziraphale so far hadn’t worked in his favour, maybe something more…creative would change his fortunes.

Crowley whittled away most of the day catching up on some articles on experimental breeding techniques in roses and then, when the afternoon was waning long, he walked the now-familiar route back to St Mildred’s.

He found Aziraphale in the private room off the aisle again. He got a better look at it this time as the priest opened the door, and thought it looked like an office. In a nice change of pace, Aziraphale looked mildly amused to see him.

“You’ve missed the service by a couple of hours, I’m afraid.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink?”

Aziraphale’s expression immediately brightened, and Crowley couldn’t tell if it was at the prospect of alcohol or relief from his ‘important work’ in the church.

“I’ll buy you one,” Crowley added. “As thanks for not, you know, pressing charges.”

“Ah, dear boy, don’t worry about that,” Aziraphale said, but he closed the door to the office behind him.

“There’s a nice-looking pub next to my hotel,” Crowley suggested.

“The White Hart?” Aziraphale asked, already heading for the exit.

“Sounds about right.”

“There’s a better one south of here,” Aziraphale said as he plucked a tan coat and tartan scarf off one of the hooks in an alcove near the door. “The Maiden’s Head. They have delicious kebabs.”

It was a quick five minute walk to the pub, the brick and plaster building charmingly English in appearance. On the pavement outside, a sandwich board advertised handmade pizzas.

Aziraphale led them inside and made a beeline for the bar, greeting the barman with a smile. Crowley expected him to order a beer or cider, but instead he asked for a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Actually,” Crowley interjected, addressing his words to the barman. “Make it a bottle.”

Aziraphale looked at him in surprise. “A fan of the old wines?”

“I dabble when I can.”

The barman poured them two glasses and set them on the bar, followed by the bottle. Aziraphale took his and the bottle and went to find a table while Crowley paid.

Crowley joined him a moment later at an out-of-the-way table near a window, settling down comfortably onto his chair.

“To your good health,” Aziraphale said, and took a sip of wine.

“Cheers,” Crowley agreed, and did the same. The wine was dry and sharp on his tongue, and when he swallowed he felt the satisfying burn of the alcohol.

“So,” Aziraphale said, arranging his fingers neatly on the base of his wine glass, “I suppose this is another well-intentioned attempt to convince me to abandon my morality?”

“No,” Crowley lied. “Maybe I just fancied a drink and you’re the only one I know within walking distance.”

“Hmph,” Aziraphale said, looking amused as he picked up his glass and gave it a small swirl, the red liquid oscillating around the edge of the glass.

“Pardon my asking,” Crowley said, “but you don’t seem like the priest type to me.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement and took a sip of his wine. “Really, I’m not. I used to think I was, which was why I got ordained in the first place, but it didn’t really work out.”

Crowley blinked at him in surprise. “But you’re still working at the church.”

“Filling in,” Aziraphale reminded him. “I quit the business a few months ago, if you must know, and came back to fill in here as a favour. I did my curacy at St Mildred’s, and the vicar’s a friend.”

Crowley absorbed that. “So what are you doing now?”

Aziraphale adjusted his position on his chair, sitting back slightly and returning to swirling his wine. “I’m planning on opening a bookshop, actually, but I’m still looking at properties.”

“Huh,” Crowley said, mentally turning that over in his head. “New books, or used?”

“Used, mostly. I have quite a few rare ones as well, but to be honest I don’t know if I could bring myself to part with them.”

Crowley made an amused noise and took a sip of his wine, latching onto this scrap of information with relish. If the priest was impervious to money as an object of fair exchange, perhaps he could be persuaded with something more enticing. “What sort of rare books? There’s quite a spectrum.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agreed, eyes lighting up as he leaned forward in his seat. “I specialise in misprinted Bibles and esoteric material, but honestly anything over three hundred years old is worth collecting just for the sheer historical value.”

“Misprinted Bibles?” Crowley echoed, wondering distractedly how much those must cost.

Aziraphale grinned at him with the delight of someone who’s been asked about their favourite subject. “They’ve either got misprinted words—for instance, the seventh commandment saying that thou _shalt_ commit adultery—or unusual translations—Adam and Eve making themselves _breeches_ from fig leaves, for example.”

“Huh.”

Once steered onto this topic of conversation, Aziraphale proved hard to distract, but Crowley wound up enjoying it despite himself. Aziraphale was very knowledgeable, and though Crowley had never considered the Bible as anything other than an object to stay very far away from, he found himself thinking that it would be cool to see one of these infamous books in person.

They were on their second glasses of wine when Aziraphale seemed to realise that he’d been talking for quite a long while, and wound up his story of tracking down a particularly rare edition of the “Ears to Ears” Bible.

“But enough about me,” Aziraphale said, picking up his glass and tipping the rim towards Crowley. “What about you? How does one get into the rose theft trade?”

“It’s not _theft_ ,” Crowley protested, but he could tell by the upturned corner of Aziraphale’s mouth that he was only teasing. He straightened himself up a little. “Horticulture is a serious field, I will have you know, full of respectable individuals.”

“Who climb over fences in the middle of the night.”

“I—look—” Crowley began, but Aziraphale only smirked and took another drink. “That was the first time I’ve done that. We do ask permission.”

“We?”

“Rose rustlers.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “ _Rustlers?_ ”

“Not my term,” Crowley said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s a hobby for most people. Roses have a long history of cultivation by humans, you see, and they’ve been selectively bred for hundreds of years. Modern roses have been engineered to look and smell and grow the way they do, so they can perform better on the market. But there are still old roses out there, growing wild. Not only do some of them have genes that have otherwise died out in modern roses, but some of them have valuable traits that were inadvertently bred out of modern cultivars.”

Aziraphale took that in.

“Like disease resistance, for example,” Crowley continued. “Black spot and other fungal infections have been devastating the English rose crop for the past few years, and if you can’t breed resistance, you have to spray for it, which isn’t ideal for anyone. And then there’s things like old roses having improved scent, drought resistance, etcetera.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “So when you talk about taking a cutting, what do you mean, exactly? If you want to breed the rose, don’t you need the seed?”

“The fruit, yes,” Crowley corrected. “That’s the rose hip. But that would produce children which weren’t identical to the parent; so if instead you take what’s called a herbaceous stem cutting, you can grow a plant that’s genetically identical to its parent.”

“Like a clone?”

“Exactly like a clone,” Crowley agreed. “And that way the traits you want are preserved. It’s amazing, what plants can do. Oftentimes you can just take a cutting of the stem—the aboveground stem, that is—with maybe a leaf or two on it, and stick it in some sand or soil, keep it watered, and it’ll just” —Crowley mimicked an explosion with his hands— “produce an entirely new plant. It’s amazing.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “ _Really?_ Just from a piece of the stem?”

“Life will find a way,” Crowley agreed with a smile. “Some plants you can grow from just a single leaf, or even a fragment of a leaf—it’s incredible. But for something like roses, you’re a lot safer taking a little larger piece, so you can get part of the rootstock. And it increases the plant’s chances of success in its new environment.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, sounding impressed.

Crowley, reaching the end of his explanation, realised with surprise that the interest in Aziraphale’s eyes was still there, bright and steady; he was so used to seeing it fade quickly and be replaced with polite disinterest that it took him off guard for a moment. He’d come to accept that, despite his enthusiasm, plant propagation was just a subject no one wanted to hear anything about. As a result, he’d kept much of his professional life to himself; it was nice being able to talk to someone about his passion and not feel guilty about it for once.

The alcohol was beginning to have an effect, stirring up a hazy warmth in his chest, and Crowley found himself smiling tentatively at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled back at him and topped up his wine glass. “If you don’t mind me asking,” the priest asked when he had finished, “are your eyes natural?”

Crowley’s smile faltered and he quickly looked away, the warm feeling beginning to fade in his chest. “Yeah,” he said, turning to his standard answer whenever people asked, which was often. “It’s a pigment imbalance. Too much lipochrome and not enough melanin. Don’t worry about it.” Crowley was already rummaging in his messenger bag, searching for his sunglasses. He hadn’t been interacting with a lot of people recently, and so had hoped to go without them for a couple of days. That was another advantage of working with plants—they didn’t care if you had freakish yellow eyes.

“What are you—” Aziraphale began.

Crowley freed his sunglasses and dropped his bag back to the ground, moving to slide the shades onto his nose.

“Oh, no, please,” Aziraphale said quickly, reaching out and putting his hand on Crowley’s arm, arresting his motion. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just curious. They’re quite beautiful.”

Crowley paused in surprise, sunglasses still in his hand. His eyes met Aziraphale’s, but the priest seemed completely honest.

“I—er,” Crowley said, taken aback. Though he had come to accept his unusual eye colour, he had never honestly expected anyone else to see them as anything other than alien, predatory, or, at best, deeply unsettling.

“Please,” Aziraphale repeated, and Crowley forced himself to nod.

He tucked his sunglasses back away into his bag and then folded his hands nervously on the table, eyes downcast as he studied the lacquered surface of the wood.

“You’re a bit of an old rare rose yourself, aren’t you?” Aziraphale commented kindly. “Genetically speaking, that is.”

Crowley felt his ears start burning and tried to cover it with a shrug. “The genetics of eye colour are very poorly understood.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement and took another sip of his wine. Crowley cast his mind around vainly for some other conversational topic, gaze still fixed on the table.

“I’m sorry if that was a sore spot,” Aziraphale said after a moment, sounding a little worried. He reached for the wine bottle and topped up Crowley’s glass for him.

“No, I—it’s fine,” Crowley said, dragging his gaze from the table and picking up the glass Aziraphale had just filled for him. He took a long gulp, Aziraphale’s words still echoing in his mind: _They’re quite beautiful_. He wondered what his stepfather would have said about that.

“Your roses,” Aziraphale said quickly. “You said you have a nursery in London, right? What do you do with them? Is it mostly breeding, or do you sell them…?”

Crowley leapt at the opportunity to drag his attention back to the present. “I do a lot of breeding, mostly,” he said, trying to avoid looking directly at Aziraphale while not making it obvious that that was what he was doing. “Trying to preserve the old cultivars before we lose them forever. And there’s a bit of selling, yeah, but most people would rather go to the flower shop and buy something cheaper. And the online competition doesn’t help.”

Aziraphale made a noise of understanding. “So, if you got one of the roses from the church, what would you do with it?”

Crowley shrugged. “It depends what type it is. If it’s a William Lobb or Charles de Mills, and if it’s disease-resistant, it would be invaluable for crossing, particularly since black spot is such a problem at the moment. I have a Lady Emma Hamilton that it would probably cross well with.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “‘Lady Emma Hamilton’?” he repeated.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” Crowley said, and paused to take a fortifying sip of wine before continuing, feeling his anxiety over his eyes beginning to fade away as he warmed to this fresh topic. “Roses have great names, particularly old roses. If you discover a new subspecies, you get to name it. A lot of people name them after themselves, and then there’s ones like Champagne Moment, Sweet Revelation, Empress of the Garden, Magic Carpet, etcetera.” Seeing Aziraphale’s disbelieving expression, Crowley added, “There are normal ones too, like _Rosa gallica_ and _willmottiae_ , but the custom names really took off.”

Aziraphale made an incredulous noise and took another sip of his wine. They were over halfway through the bottle now, and Crowley belatedly remembered his initial plan to get the priest drunk enough so that he’d let him into the cemetery.

Now, though, that seemed downright underhanded, and, though Crowley could certainly be a _little_ manipulative at times, he wasn’t _that_ manipulative. And they were having such a nice time as it was. Besides, the priest was holding his liquor a lot better than Crowley had assumed he would.

“Do you want to order some dinner?” Aziraphale asked, glancing in the direction of the board next to the bar with the list of specials.

“Sure,” Crowley agreed, oddly relieved at the suggestion.

They discussed Canterbury while they waited for their food to be brought, Crowley explaining that he was on a rose-hunting expedition in the southeast of England.

“You never know what you’ll find,” Crowley said. “I once found a beautiful Princess Anne in a ditch in Shrewsbury. Or, well, I think it’s a Princess Anne. It’s hard to be sure.”

Aziraphale hummed and sipped his wine. “So how long are you here for? There’s more to southeast England than Canterbury, little as people may believe it.”

Crowley laughed agreement. “Well, I’ve got about a week left,” he explained, shifting the wine bottle to make more room for their food when it came. “And then I need to head back to London for the Royal Horticulture Society’s annual rose show. It’ll be my third year attending.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but that was when their food arrived.

They made small talk as they ate, and Crowley slowly realised that Aziraphale wasn’t as old as he’d initially thought. He certainly dressed like he was nearing fifty, but there was a youthfulness in his face that came out when he smiled, and Crowley found himself suspecting that the priest wasn’t actually much older than he was.

As they worked their way to the bottom of the wine bottle, Crowley’s mind getting increasingly warm, they found themselves on the topic of religion, and why Aziraphale had quit it.

“It’s just…I did a bit too much reading,” the priest confessed, listing over the table, cheeks flushed. “And once you start to really think about it, it all just falls apart, doesn’t it?”

Crowley, who sensed that his education on the Bible had been very different than most people’s, furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Take Eden, for example,” Aziraphale said, planting a hand on the table. “If God didn’t want them to take the apple, why did He make it so easy for them to reach the tree? And doesn’t He see all, so wouldn’t He have seen that they would disobey? It just doesn’t make any logical sense.”

Crowley pursed his lips in thought, the room swaying slightly around him. “What about God working in mysterious ways and all that?”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale hissed, eyes suddenly intent. “It only works if you take it all on faith. That’s the point I’m trying to make. It’s God’s _conveniently_ _ineffable_ plan.”

Crowley squinted at the priest. “What’sss that mean?”

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale repeated. “Unknowable.”

Crowley grunted agreement and eyed up his glass, wondering if it was wise to take another drink.

“It looks logical at first glance,” Aziraphale insisted, "but it’s a superficial logic because it’s all built on blind faith in an _ineffable_ masterplan. It operates on the assumption that no one’s going to be independent-thinking enough to actually give it a good poke. And if you do—go a-poking, that is—you’ll see that’s it’s all just a facade.”

Crowley shifted his eyes back to Aziraphale. “But you’re supposed to have faith,” he said. Even he knew that. “That’sss the point. And you’re a priest. That’sss your _job_.”

Aziraphale sat back and spread his hands slightly. “Hence not being a priest anymore.”

Crowley made a noise of understanding. “I sssee.”

“And what about you, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, leaning forward and awkwardly patting Crowley’s hand. “You seem like a godless fellow to me.”

Crowley wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an insult or not, but he let it pass. He shrugged. “Never got much into it.” He distantly remembered his stepfather screaming at him and hurling the Bible in his direction as he cowered and tried to flee the house. “My old man was, though.”

Aziraphale considered this, reaching for his glass drunkenly. “You must have liked him.”

Crowley grimaced. “Hated him, to be honest.”

Aziraphale’s mouth arranged itself into a frown as his hand successfully located his glass. “But you use his name. Crowley, not Anthony, remember?”

Crowley’s grimace deepened. “Crowley was my real father’s name. I never really knew him, but I guess he was a sight nicer than his replacement.”

Sometimes, Crowley could still hear the insults thrown his way, the taunt of _yellow eyes_ picked up by the neighbourhood children. His stepfather had been a god-fearing man and a drunk, and together the two had convinced him that his stepson was a cruelty God had set in his path, an ungrateful, demonic-eyed abomination sent to tempt his wife into leaving him.

“But what about Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, dragging his glass towards him across the tabletop without bothering to actually pick it up. “Anthony’s nice.”

_Not when he’d say it_ , Crowley thought bleakly. “Didn’t like it,” he said instead.

Aziraphale grunted understanding.

Crowley thought that this conversation should have been upsetting him, but it just…wasn’t. Maybe it was the haze of alcohol, or the knowledge that his past was a long way behind him. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long time, he was truly happy with the present moment. Sitting here with this strange, kind, oddly beautiful priest with the mystery rose bush…this really wasn’t so bad at all.

Crowley realised he was grinning lopsidedly at Aziraphale and hastily shook himself.

“Well,” Aziraphale hiccupped, “if you ever feel like giving religion another shot, you’re welcome to come to one of the services. Even with the ineffability, there’re some useful things you can get out of it.”

Crowley hummed acknowledgement.

Aziraphale picked up the wine bottle and seemed surprised to find it was empty. “Oh dear, I think it’s probably time we were getting back, what do you think?”

“Ssssure,” Crowley slurred, wondering where ‘back’ would be.

Aziraphale made his way out of his chair, spent a long moment steadying himself, and then hobbled over to Crowley and offered his hand. Crowley accepted it and let Aziraphale help him to his feet. The room swayed alarmingly, and Crowley listed against the priest, the other man’s warm solidity somehow reassuring.

“Door…” Aziraphale muttered, and they started staggering in that direction, Crowley still clinging to Aziraphale’s arm for support.

They made it outside, the cool twilight air playing over Crowley’s skin. “Thisss was niccce,” Crowley mumbled as they started their way down the street, Aziraphale leading them in a meandering line in the direction of the church.

“Y—es,” Aziraphale hiccuped agreement, shifting his arm so it was wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders.

Crowley hummed in contentment, soaking in the feeling of companionship while he still could. He did spend so very much of his time alone.

It was far too soon when the shape of the church came into view, the steeple a dark blotch against the fading sky. Again, Crowley remembered the rose, but decided absently that it could wait. He didn’t trust himself to take a good cutting when the world was spinning like this, anyway.

Aziraphale slowed to a stop outside the church, clumsily retracting his arm from Crowley’s shoulders. “Can you get back to your—your hotel okay?”

Crowley blinked at him for a moment. He took a deep breath, trying to convince the world to solidify around him. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale nodded unsteadily, the half-light playing over his features. “Good night, then.”

Crowley, staring down the lane in the direction of his hotel, trying to plot out the way back in his head, was silent for a moment. Then he registered what Aziraphale had said and turned back, nodding emphatically. “Night, good night, yes,” he affirmed.

Aziraphale smiled faintly at him, listing a little to one side. “You’ll come to the church tomorrow?”

Crowley nodded again, a lopsided smile stealing over his face. “You know I will. I’ll come back every day until I get that rose, you hear me?”

Aziraphale’s smile faded slightly, but Crowley had already turned back to the road.

He started unsteadily down the lane, the shadows of the cemetery fence transforming the flat surface of the road into a series of undulating waves.

As he made his way down the lane, feet stumbling on every shadow and imagined rock, Crowley smiled at the warmth in his chest and thought hazily that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a sense of sheer _belonging_.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley hummed absently to himself as he poked through the books in Canterbury’s Oxfam.

He’d spent the morning with Aziraphale, bringing him a coffee to help with what was doubtlessly a hangover rivalling his own—the priest had muttered something about preferring tea but had seemed happy to see him—and had then headed to High Street to find a bookshop.

After locating the promising-looking Oxfam, he’d made a beeline for the shelves nearest the register, where the books looked oldest. Crowley didn’t know the first thing about how to determine the value of a rare book, or even how to tell if the book _was_ rare, but Aziraphale had said he liked books that were old or esoteric, so that’s what Crowley was looking for.

He knew he could have just asked the man sitting right next to him behind the counter for a recommendation, but he wanted to find one himself. As it was, every time Crowley pulled one of the books off the shelf, causing little flakes of leather binding to flutter to the ground, the man scowled at him.

Most of the books were on local history, and Crowley examined a huge volume on martyrs, but after much deliberation he decided he simply didn’t want to lug the huge thing back to his hotel, and he wasn’t sure if it was esoteric enough anyway.

After quite a bit of pulling books out, checking the price, putting them back, and then pulling them back out again, his eyes landed on a small, modest volume with a faded spine and delicate gold detailing. Part of the title was too worn to read in the shop’s lighting, but the top word, ‘Angels,’ was legible.

Intrigued, Crowley carefully pulled the volume free. He distantly recalled Aziraphale saying that he’d been named after an angel, and, given his interest in old Bibles, they might be something he was interested in as well.

Crowley ran his finger over the faint embossed floral motif on the front cover and opened to the title page. _Angels and the Heavenly Spheres_ proclaimed the block typeface. In smaller, red letters underneath that, it read _Denizens of Heaven, Including the Angelic Host, Our Mortal Forebearers, and Our Lord Jesus Christ: Their Dwelling-Places, Duties, and Influences_. On the lefthand page lay the frontispiece, a beautiful engraving of several winged figures surrounding a pile of clouds holding a floating sphere with a cross in the centre.

Crowley flipped a few pages further, glancing through the table of contents. It was certainly esoteric, and if Aziraphale’s interests extended to religious mythology, this would certainly take his fancy. Crowley paged back to the beginning, this time looking for the publication date. He found it near the bottom, spelled out in Roman numerals—1744. Not exactly ancient, then, but hopefully old enough to provide some interest.

Bracing himself, Crowley tugged free the slip of acid-free paper tucked just after the front cover and looked at the price. For a long moment he just stared at it, wondering hopefully if he’d mentally transposed a digit, but that did not appear to be the case. They wanted £150 for it.

Crowley flipped back to the title page and looked at it for a long moment, running his eyes over the attractive lines of text. Then he looked back at the other books.

He didn’t know how much he was willing to spend for a rose that may or may not even be that rare, and he didn’t know if bribing Aziraphale with a book would work anyway. Maybe he already had a book just like this one, or maybe he wasn’t interested in angels.

Crowley’s eyes roved back down to the book in his hands, this time resting his gaze on the engraving. Something deep inside himself told him that Aziraphale would like the book. And, name etymology aside, a book about angels just seemed, somehow…fitting for him.

In the end, Crowley haggled with the shopkeeper and managed to get it down to £135, which he charged to his card while mentally cringing at the idea of how much fertiliser he could have bought for that price.

The shopkeeper wrapped the book in plain brown paper for him, and Crowley took extra care to hold it securely as he made his way back to his hotel.

 

~*~

 

The next day, when Crowley dropped by the church to make his now-routine request to look at the rose bush, Aziraphale invited him into his borrowed office. They passed two hours debating the merits of tea versus coffee and discussing the finer points of automotive excellence, Crowley admitting to his dream of one day owning a vintage Bentley, or maybe a Rolls.

Aziraphale caught on that Crowley hadn’t really been around Canterbury yet, and immediately volunteered to show him around the next day. Crowley, who was busily turning over in his mind how best to present his book bribery, readily agreed. At least it would mean seeing something other than the inside of his hotel room or the church for a change.

Aziraphale turned out to be both a fantastically knowledgeable and extremely easily-distracted tour guide, and several times they had to stop by the side of the road, forming an island around which the streams of tourists flowed, while Aziraphale recounted some anecdote about fourteenth-century legal practise. Crowley had never been much interested in history, but he didn’t find his interest waning. On the contrary, Aziraphale seemed to breathe life into what Crowley had always seen as a bleak and uninteresting past, reanimating history’s actors and revealing that they were, after all, just ordinary people with ordinary thoughts and emotions.

Crowley was content to just gaze at Canterbury Cathedral from afar—his pocketbook was currently feeling some stress, after all—but Aziraphale wouldn’t hear it and insisted that they go inside, even going so far as to buy Crowley’s ticket for him.

The two belfries on the west end of the building were surrounded by a haze of scaffolding, but the rest of the cathedral was visible, Aziraphale taking pains to point out the various architectural features. Crowley knew as much about architecture as he did about churches, which was to say practically nothing, but again he found himself wrapped up in Aziraphale’s words as the priest pointed out the south transepts and explained that the floor plan essentially consisted of two traditional churches lined up end-to-end. Aziraphale, for his part, just seemed delighted to have a captive audience.

The interior of the cathedral was even more spectacular, the sheer height of the nave prompting Crowley to revisit his opinion of medieval people as uninspired and a bit dim. Aziraphale was quick to explain the liturgical and symbolic functions of the various parts of the cathedral to him, and when they reached the north-west transept, he recounted in a low voice the tale of how Thomas Beckett had been murdered here, in his own cathedral, by a couple of knights working on what they thought were the orders of the king.

The cathedral was huge, and they whittled away another two hours walking down the aisles, circling the cloister, and poking around in the crypt.

Afterwards, they took a lazy walk through the church grounds, Aziraphale producing interesting anecdotes about the history of the city while Crowley wondered absently how long he’d keep going before he ran out of trivia and just start making things up.

They had a quick lunch and visited a small chapel, the ruins of a once sizeable abbey, and the city’s Roman wall. As they padded along the paved top of the last, the sun beginning to near the horizon as the wind picked up, Crowley found his mind wandering back to the book sitting on the bedside table in his hotel room, wrapped in brown paper.

After Aziraphale had walked him back to his hotel, Crowley spent a long moment just sitting on the bed and looking at the book. He knew it was his best chance of convincing Aziraphale to let him take a rose, but he could also tell the priest was warming to him, and maybe if he played his cards right he could convince Aziraphale to let him take a cutting without giving him the book. In which case he could take it back to the shop and maybe get at least half of his money back. It _had_ been awfully expensive, after all.

That was what he would do, he decided. Because, ultimately, he was only here for the rose anyway.

 

~*~

 

There was choir practise at the church the next morning, so Crowley left, walked a bit around the city, and came back later, feeling that it wasn’t half as interesting of a place without Aziraphale.

Upon his return to the church, he found Aziraphale a bit busy with paperwork; apparently filling in for a vicar entailed more than just writing a sermon and showing up on Sunday. Crowley had nowhere else to be, though, and he was supposed to be spending his time buttering Aziraphale up, so he poked through the theological books in the vicar’s office until he found one that didn’t look too boring. Unfortunately, it was still terribly dull, and he kept finding his gaze wandering to where Aziraphale was scowling at the laptop screen on his desk.

Taking a particularly deep scowl as his cue to rescue himself from the boredom of theological discussion, Crowley leaned towards the desk and asked if he could help at all, since he was devilishly good with computers.

Aziraphale looked relieved at the suggestion, and Crowley ended up dragging his chair around to the other side of the desk so he could see what he was doing better. Aziraphale’s proximity was slightly distracting, but Crowley kept his eyes trained on the screen as he walked the priest through the horrendously poorly-designed system that was Microsoft Excel graphs.

Aziraphale audibly gasped as Crowley produced the graph he wanted in just a few seconds, and when Crowley laughed a little the priest confessed that he’d been struggling with the software for days.

“It’s not so bad once you know how it works,” Crowley said consolingly.

“Well, that _is_ the hard part, isn’t it?” Aziraphale pointed out, poking cautiously at the laptop keyboard in the hopes of reproducing the graph Crowley had just made.

“You know what they say,” Crowley said easily, leaning back and stretching out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here, working for Microsoft…”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh and a moment later returned to scowling as he hit the enter key and got an error message.

“Here,” Crowley said, leaning forward again. “You’ve just missed a parenthesis, is all…”

Once they’d won their battle with Excel, Crowley cast Aziraphale a sly gaze.

“So,” he said, sitting back in his seat a little. “Since I’ve been so chivalrous as to help you out, I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to return the favour? Just a single rose…”

“I didn’t realise your magnanimity came with a price,” Aziraphale said mildly, and though his tone was light, he kept his eyes trained on the laptop screen.

“Not a _price_ , really…” Crowley said, sitting forward again and drawing out his words, hoping to convey that he was mostly joking. “It doesn’t _cost_ you anything…”

Aziraphale harrumphed, but Crowley got the distinct impression that he’d misstepped somewhere.

The priest closed out of Excel and Crowley stood, dragging his chair back around to the other side of the desk. “I’ll just be here,” he said lightly, “in case you change your mind.”

Aziraphale made a noise of acknowledgement but kept his eyes trained carefully on the computer screen, and after a while Crowley returned to staring blankly at the theology book and wondering what he’d said wrong.

 

~*~

 

The next day, Crowley took _Angels and the Heavenly Spheres_ with him to see Aziraphale. He deliberated for a long while, putting the book in his bag and then taking it out again, staring at the brown paper surface of the wrapping. He only had two days left in Canterbury before he had to be getting back to London for the rose show, and he knew he really ought to try to tempt Aziraphale with the book today. That way, if it didn’t work, he could make one last plea on Saturday before he left first thing in the morning on Sunday. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that—Lord knew he’d paid enough for the book, and he at least wanted to see that money put to good use.

So he walked to St Mildred’s in the light rain, holding his messenger bag tight to his side and firmly closed. As he greeted Aziraphale in his office, the back of his mind worked on the question of how to best present the book. He didn’t want to make it overly obvious that he was bribing him, but was hoping that, if he showed some genuine gratitude along with it, Aziraphale would take pity on him and give him what he wanted.

Or, he would just take the book and leave Crowley out £135 with nothing to show for it or his entire trip to Canterbury.

These thoughts mulled around in the back of Crowley’s head as he chatted with Aziraphale and even helped him dust off some of the stonework in the church.

_I’ll do it over lunch_ , he decided mid-morning. _If I do it straightaway it’ll seem suspicious._

They walked to a nearby cafe for lunch, but it was a bit busy, the rain drumming noisily on the pavement outside. _Somewhere more private would be better. I’ll do it this afternoon_.

Crowley lounged around in Aziraphale’s office in the afternoon, idly watching the priest tapping away at his computer and occasionally promising that he was almost done. _I don’t want to do it in his office_ , he thought, hand heavy on the messenger bag he’d plopped in his lap. _It’s too…impersonal._

Crowley was beginning to berate himself over his negligence by the time Aziraphale finally finished his work. Crowley, coming to a conclusion regarding the best venue for his plan, suggested they go on a bit of a walk, since the rain had stopped. Aziraphale seemed immensely cheered at the prospect of leaving the church, and Crowley felt a pang of guilt at using it as a pretext for cornering him about the roses.

They meandered through a small park, watching the squirrels darting back and forth under the trees, and Crowley found himself dragging his feet, slowing their pace as much as he dared.

They passed a sandwich shop that Aziraphale said was quite excellent, so they stopped for an early dinner. It was just as good as Aziraphale had promised, but Crowley could only eat half of his, stomach clenching guiltily. Aziraphale asked him if he was all right, and Crowley waved away his concern.

They made their way as slowly as Crowley could manage back to the church. Crowley ground to a halt outside the main doors, and Aziraphale stopped next to him.

“You’re heading back to London on Sunday, right?” Aziraphale asked, voice casual.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and the hand resting on his messenger bag twitched nervously. “Early.”

_This is it_ , he told himself. _This is the perfect moment._

Crowley swallowed. His hand slipped into his bag, fingers closing around the brown paper package.

_Tell him you got him a present. You hope he likes it. It’s a token of your gratitude, for showing such kindness to a poor rose-rustler such as yourself._

With the book already nearing the lip of his bag, Crowley hesitated. Because that was what it all came down to, didn’t it? Aziraphale had showed him kindness—a great deal more kindness than anyone had ever shown him before. And he was going to repay that kindness with something that amounted to little more than emotional manipulation?

The perfect William Lobb appeared in Crowley’s mind’s eye: disease-resistant, bearing huge, beautiful flowers that bloomed all year round, and with the light, full fragrance only the old roses could truly possess. He imagined himself owning such a rose bush, crossing it with only the finest specimens and doting on it night and day.

Crowley, mouth half-open with Aziraphale’s name on his lips, hesitated on the brink of making what he sensed was a terrifically important decision. Aziraphale was looking at him expectantly, a faint smile on his face, brilliant blue eyes bright. He looked so much happier than the dour priest that had closed the door to his office on Crowley a week ago.

“I—I, uh—what are you doing tomorrow?” Crowley blurted out, hand closing convulsively around the book in his bag and then forcibly releasing it.

An apologetic look came across Aziraphale’s face. “I need to pay visits to some ailing parishioners,” he explained. “It’ll take most of the day, I’m afraid, but I was, er, I was wondering if you wanted to do dinner, actually. With me. At the vicarage.”

Crowley’s initial disappointment was quickly washed away by relief. “Sure! Yes, uh, that’d be fine. What time?”

They arranged the details and awkwardly bid each other good night. Crowley’s mind was still very much on the book in his bag, and he could feel it burning a hole in the material as he trudged back to his hotel.

But when he gained his room, pulled the book out, and plopped it down on the bedside table, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just dodged a particularly dangerous bullet.

 

~*~

 

Crowley hadn’t exactly brought his finest clothes to his trek through southeast England, but he had brought one of his favourite blazers, as well as a red button-up that he’d taken quite a fancy to. He had neglected to bring a tie, though, so he left the top button undone and spent what was probably an embarrassingly long time staring at his reflection in the mirror in the loo and trying to arrange his hair into its most aesthetically-pleasing shape. Inevitably, his gaze drifted to his own eyes, the bright golden irises staring back at him worriedly.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was putting so much effort into this in the first place; it wasn’t as though anything was really at stake. This was just a goodbye dinner with a pleasant acquaintance. He’d never see Aziraphale again, so it really didn’t matter anyway. Before long, this whole trip would just be a fond memory, an exciting caper to reminisce on when his mind wandered, or an interesting example to relate to potential horticulturists of how exciting rose-rustling could be.

With still twenty minutes before he was due at the vicarage, Crowley headed out, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a small brown package in the other. He’d decided that, though he no longer intended on using the book as leverage for getting a rose cutting, he probably wouldn’t get much of his money back anyway, so he might as well just give it to Aziraphale as originally planned. Besides, there was still that feeling deep in Crowley’s stomach that Aziraphale would really enjoy it.

When Crowley was nearing St Mildred’s, he took a brief detour to the section of cemetery fence nearest the rose bush. He gazed towards its now-familiar shape, admiring the beautiful blooms for the last time.

“It’s been nice knowing you,” he told the bush quietly, temporarily resting the wine bottle on one of the horizontals of the fence. “I still haven’t the foggiest what you actually are, but you’ve led me on a nice little adventure. So you just keep on growing, and, who knows, maybe I’ll be back someday.”

When he had had his fill of feeling like a fool whispering to a bush from several metres away, Crowley turned his feet towards the vicarage.

He came to a stop a few metres away, looking at the low stone building and eyeing the automatic light out front a little fondly. He neared the door and hesitated just outside, gaze lingering on the letterbox. With a glance at the window, he stepped forward and pried the metal lid of the letterbox open.

It was empty, and Crowley carefully placed the wrapped book inside. He’d added a small note before leaving his hotel, just a small scrap of paper stuck inside where the price had once been, saying only ‘I thought you might like this.’ He knew it would be no mystery as to who had left it there, but Aziraphale surely wouldn’t check his post until the following morning at the earliest, and by then Crowley would be gone. This way, Crowley assured himself, the book wouldn’t be emotionally manipulative in any way; it would just be a gift from a friend, with no strings attached.

Crowley carefully closed the letterbox, making sure the door was securely closed—it wasn’t supposed to rain but you could never be too careful—and then, after performing a last-minute, nervous pat-down, hesitantly approached the door.

He rapped twice and waited, palms suddenly sweating. He adjusted his grip on the wine bottle.

After a moment, the door swung open to reveal Aziraphale.

It looked like he had taken the opportunity to dress up a little as well. He seemed to have gone even further down the stuffy-professor rabbit hole, adding a tan jacket and tie to his usual shirt-and-jumper combo. He’d clearly made an attempt to smooth down his hair as well, to rather comedic effect. But his face split into a grin as he saw Crowley, and Crowley felt his nerves begin to evaporate. It was only Aziraphale, after all.

“Come on in, my dear,” Aziraphale said warmly, stepping back and motioning him inside. “You’re right on time.”

“I brought some wine,” Crowley offered as he walked in, Aziraphale closing the door behind him.

“Excellent,” Aziraphale said, coming back around and looking at the bottle as Crowley held it out to him for his approval. “I picked out a bottle too, but…yes, this one’s better.”

Aziraphale took it from him and gestured for Crowley to follow him into the next room. Crowley did so, and his eyes immediately fell on where Aziraphale had carefully set up a small table near the window. It was draped with a white tablecloth and set with napkins, utensils, crystal wine glasses, and two tall, unlit candles.

“Please take a seat,” Aziraphale said, setting down the wine on the table and gesturing to a chair before bustling off into the kitchen.

Crowley did as he was bid, suddenly nervous again at all the pageantry. He crossed his legs under the table, then uncrossed them again and fidgeted with his feet.

A moment later, Aziraphale reappeared with two plates piled high with food, one of which he set in front of Crowley.

“I haven’t cooked properly in a long time,” Aziraphale admitted apologetically, “so if it’s terrible please don’t feel the need to eat all of it.”

“It looks amazing,” Crowley said honestly, looking down at his plate. Arranged around a large piece of chicken that had been seared to a perfect golden colour lay a heap of glazed string beans dotted with pepper, a dollop of mashed potatoes, and even a small bread roll.

“Oh, well, thank you,” Aziraphale said, looking a little flustered as he opened the wine bottle and poured them both a glass.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” Crowley said as Aziraphale took his seat on the opposite side of the table.

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Aziraphale insisted. “It’s been ages since…well, it’s nice to have company.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement and started carefully cutting up his chicken.

They made small talk as they worked through the meal, which as far as Crowley was concerned tasted just as good as it looked.

Far too soon, the night began to grow old, and Crowley poured himself another glass of wine as an excuse to stay longer.

When there was a lull in the conversation, Aziraphale said, “So…you’re heading back tomorrow?”

Crowley nodded. “Eight o’clock train. It’s one of the fast ones, so I should be able to reach London before the rose show gets properly started.”

“You said you’d been before,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nodded. “This will be my third year. It’s an important networking opportunity, especially for meeting potential buyers and seeing what cultivars the other breeders have.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It is,” Crowley said, taking a sip of his wine. It soured a little on the way down. “Usually I’d be preparing already,” he said. “I’ll have a lot of ground to cover on Monday and Tuesday; Sunday is important for first impressions, but Monday is the main day.”

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise.

“It’s…ah, it’s quite fun though. Lots of…roses to look at.” _Why am I still talking about this?_ Crowley lapsed into silence, staring awkwardly at his wine glass.

“Well,” Aziraphale said after a moment, “before you go…” The priest twisted in his chair, reaching around to rummage in something behind him. Crowley took the opportunity to take another swallow of wine, trying to calm himself.

Then Aziraphale turned back around and Crowley was grateful he’d already swallowed. The priest held out a single, violet-and-peach-tinged rose to him. _The William Lobb._

“Here,” Aziraphale said, and the smile on his face was nervous.

Crowley reached out an incredulous hand and took the rose from Aziraphale, noticing as he did so that the priest had included a segment of the rootstock as well, wrapping the base of the plant in a plastic bag.

“I hope I took the cutting correctly,” Aziraphale said. “I looked up how to do it, but if I did something wrong we can go take another one.”

Crowley stared at the rose in his hands. It was even more beautiful up close, with a full, round bloom and one of the most beautiful colourations Crowley had ever seen.

“It—it looks—but what about the regular vicar?” Crowley looked up in confusion, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. “And all that about honour and bribery and property that’s not yours to give away?”

Aziraphale gave him a faint smile. “Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and to be honest I don’t think he cares much either way.”

Crowley made a strangled noise, but Aziraphale only smiled at him, gaze warm.

Crowley turned his attention back to the rose, gently turning it over in his hands. The leaves were beautiful as well, with a full, symmetrical pattern and no sign of disease, fungal or otherwise. Usually even healthy roses suffered from mild cases of black spot, and it was incredibly rare to find a bush that was completely resistant. As Crowley’s expert eye tracked along the length of the stem, though, he suddenly found himself doubting if it was a William Lobb after all, or even a Charles de Mills. The pattern of the petals was more like a Chrysler Imperial, and the flush of peach wasn’t quite consistent either. Maybe it was _better_ than a William Lobb.

“This is…incredible,” Crowley said honestly, looking up in undisguised delight. “I— _thank you_ , this is…” He looked down at the rose again, this time inspecting how Aziraphale had wrapped the roots. The priest had done an admirable job, and had even taken the time to include some moist soil in the plastic bag. Crowley looked up again, another thank-you on his lips, and that was when Aziraphale leaned across the table and kissed him.

Every atom in Crowley’s body froze as Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his, warm and soft. Crowley’s elation over the rose vanished in an instant, turning bitter in his stomach, and he felt his hands tighten convulsively around the stem, thorns sharp against his palms.

Aziraphale leaned ever so slightly closer, trying to deepen the kiss, and Crowley’s heart kicked back in, beating a mile a minute as he abruptly pulled away, knocking his chair back and struggling to his feet.

“I—I—I should go,” Crowley stammered, tripping over the chair in his haste to escape. Before he could avert his gaze, he caught a glimpse of Aziraphale, still partially leaning over the table and looking up at him with those beautiful blue eyes, appearing very taken aback.

Crowley freed himself from the chair and staggered towards the door, hands still strangling the rose.

“Wait,” Aziraphale found his voice, and Crowley could hear him hurrying from his own chair as Crowley’s eyes latched onto the door. “No, please—”

“Th—thank you for the meal,” Crowley stammered, managing to release the rose long enough to pry the door open, hand shaking.

“Crowley—please—I’m sorry—” Aziraphale said, and now his voice was tinged with desperation, but Crowley was already through the door, stumbling out into the cool evening air.

Crowley’s gaze riveted itself on the lane that would take him back to his hotel, and he hastily started towards it, legs shaking but forcing himself to go as fast as he could without breaking into a sprint.

Aziraphale called after him one more time, but Crowley couldn’t make out his words and just put his head down and walked faster, willing his feet to take him far away.

He didn’t stop until he had gained the safety of his hotel room, locking the door and sinking onto the bed. It took him a moment to remember he was still holding the rose, and when he carefully set it on the bedside table he saw that the thorns had pricked his skin, and he was bleeding in several places. He barely registered the pain, and didn’t bother doing anything more than running his hands under cool water until the stream ran clear.

Then Crowley set the alarm on his phone for morning, curled up on his side on the mattress, and willed himself to never feel anything ever again.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley strode purposefully along the pavement of High Street, dragging his suitcase after him. The rose was carefully wrapped and tucked away in his messenger bag. He had what he wanted; he could go home now. Everything had worked out perfectly for him, and in the nick of time too. The rose would make an admirable addition to his collection, particularly since, the more time he spent looking at it, the more he thought it was an undiscovered cultivar.

Crowley continued down the pavement, the wheels of his suitcase catching on every crack. He was headed to the train station, where he would put his life physically and metaphorically back on track.

The streets were much emptier than they’d been when Aziraphale had showed him around the city, and Crowley made good time. Hopefully he’d make it back early enough that he wouldn’t have to miss too much of the rose show.

His reflection followed him in the shopfronts he passed, stride unfaltering. He had put his sunglasses on before leaving that morning, and they were a familiar burden on his nose, necessary even as they dimmed his perception of the world. In other words, things were back to normal.

Crowley was going to reach the train station, he was going to board the train, he was going to get off in London and go to the RHS’s rose show, and he was going to go back to doing what he did best: looking after plants. He would never have to come back to Canterbury again, and he could focus all his attention on his beloved roses. They’d probably be missing him, after his lengthy absence.

The Orange Triumph would need careful pruning, because it always produced more than the ideal leaf to bloom ratio. The Landmark had been about to bloom when he’d left, and if he was lucky he’d be able to catch the end of its flowering. And the Duke of Edinburgh would be producing rose hips by now.

Crowley dragged his suitcase past the Oxfam he’d bought _Angels and the Heavenly Spheres_ at, staring determinedly at the pavement the entire time, ignoring the twist in his stomach.

He would need to look into getting some new planters for his next round of seedlings, since he’d been running a little low when he left. And the rose he had tucked away in his bag right now would need an extra special planter. After all the effort he had expended on acquiring it, he would need to lavish it with extra attention. And then, every time he looked at it, he would remember this little adventure, and the stuffy priest who had given it to him.

Of course, he hadn’t turned out to be that stuffy in the end, really. He had been kind, and interesting, and beautiful, and he had known so much about Canterbury and its history. He had loved rare books, the older the better, and, perhaps most impossibly of all, he had seemed to genuinely enjoy Crowley’s company, and had somehow felt something other than fear or disgust when he looked into Crowley’s hideous yellow eyes…

Crowley jerked his attention back to the present and picked up his pace, suitcase clicking on the pavement behind him. He fixed his mind on the rose bush he would grow from the cutting in his bag, running through the list of things he’d need to do as soon as he got back to London. He’d have to pot it right away, of course, and make sure the stem was supported and the soil well-watered. And then, when it grew larger, he would transplant it to a place of honour and proudly display it to any visitors he entertained, and he might even regale a few with the tale of how he’d climbed a fence in the middle of the night in the hopes of retrieving it. What a great story that would make. But of course he’d keep the best story to himself, and it would come back to him when he gently pruned the bush’s leaves and stroked his finger along the edges of the beautiful blooms. He’d remember the way Aziraphale had leaned closer and gently pressed their lips together, and the way Crowley’s heart had leapt, and then he’d remember how he had run away, leaving behind the person who was possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him…

Crowley abruptly stopped walking, standing in the middle of the pavement next to a few displays overflowing with fresh fruit and vegetables.

“Stupid,” he said, staring down the street in the direction of the train station.

Aziraphale had called after him when Crowley had panicked and ran, Aziraphale had _called after him_ and he’d just walked faster, even though he could hear in Aziraphale’s voice how much it was hurting him. Crowley hadn’t even looked back.

He looked back now, gazing over his shoulder down the road in the direction he’d come.

Crowley remembered their night at the pub, and how, for the first time in forever, he’d felt like he truly _belonged_ somewhere—that he belonged _with_ someone, instead of just being on his own, carving out meaning for himself through sheer force of will. It was just that he’d been on his own for so very long that it was hard to imagine anything else ever being the case. But that didn’t mean it _couldn’t_ be the case, not if Crowley was lucky enough to find someone who he cared about and who cared about him.

“Idiot,” Crowley said, mouth going dry as he stared sightlessly at the row of shops on the opposite side of the street. Because maybe he didn’t _have_ to be alone forever. Maybe he could spend more time with Aziraphale, and they could have long conversations and Crowley could find old books for him to fawn over, and Aziraphale could regale him with historical trivia until he had exhausted his entire supply, and maybe—just _maybe_ —Crowley could _always_ feel like he truly _belonged_ somewhere—maybe, if he was brave enough to just give it a _chance_ —

“I—I’m such an idiot,” Crowley said again, voice growing in volume. As he said it, he felt his resolve strengthen, coupled with a feeling of incredible lightness. He had made a mistake—possibly a string of mistakes—but he hoped it wasn’t too late to fix those mistakes. He looked back down the street again, mentally tracing the route to St Mildred’s in his head. Aziraphale would be there, he felt certain, because Aziraphale was always there, and maybe the future he wanted so badly wasn’t out of his reach just yet—

“You’re an idiot, yes, we heard!” shouted someone from behind Crowley. Head spinning slightly, Crowley turned to see the owner of the fruit and vegetable displays waving a hand at him. “Now get out of the bloody walkway if you’re just gonna stand there…!”

Crowley blinked and turned to see that he had indeed been blocking the pavement from a stream of pedestrians coming from the direction of the train station. _The train station._

For a moment Crowley just stared past the people trying to get around him, remembering the ticket in his pocket.

Then he collapsed the handle on his suitcase, grabbed it by the nylon strap on the side, turned, and sprinted back the way he had come.

Crowley’s lungs were burning by the time he reached St Mildred’s, legs searing and arm stiff from carrying his suitcase. He’d pulled off his sunglasses somewhere along the way, and they bounced against his chest from where he’d tucked them into the collar of his shirt. He slowed his pace as he approached the church, dropping into a gasping trot and then finally coming to a stop by the door. He pushed it open and stepped inside, panting slightly, and that was when he realised that, unlike every other time he had been at the church, it wasn’t empty.

And of course it wasn’t; it was Sunday.

Crowley rocked to an embarrassed halt, still breathing heavily and with his suitcase in hand. Luckily, no one except a few people in the back pews seemed to notice his entrance, casting him curious or disapproving looks. And Aziraphale, of course, who broke off with a stutter in the middle of something that sounded rather important.

Crowley moved the rest of the way inside and shut the door behind him as quietly as he could, setting his suitcase down next to him. Then his eyes roved back to Aziraphale, who was gaping at him from his spot on the pulpit.

“And—uh—” Aziraphale stammered, voice magnified by the microphone. Though Crowley felt a little bad about having not realised he was interrupting, he was still far too exhilarated to let it bother him much. He gave Aziraphale a little wave and the priest visibly collected himself.

“And so…um….in summary, really what Christ was trying to say with the whole mustard seed business was don’t let appearances be deceiving, good things come in small packages, and, uh, a little bit of faith is all you need. Amen.”

The congregation stirred as Aziraphale shuffled some papers on the pulpit and started to retreat down the steps. Then, a moment later, he returned, grabbed another sheet of paper, and made his way back down the steps, looking visibly flustered.

“Please stand for the hymn,” Aziraphale directed, and the congregation obediently clambered to their feet. It wasn’t a particularly large group—the cathedral must have provided challenging competition—but they had their own choir, which started singing as Aziraphale bustled off to the side aisle and started making his way towards the rear of the church, where Crowley was.

Crowley watched him approach, a grin already beginning to steal across his face. Aziraphale looked slightly ridiculous in the white robe and long black stole of his office, but Crowley found he didn’t mind one bit. As he neared and Crowley saw the pained expression on Aziraphale’s face, though, he felt the smile begin to slide off his own.

Aziraphale motioned to a small space behind a moveable coat rack near the door, just out of sight of the congregation. Crowley stepped obligingly behind the coat rack as the congregation joined in the hymn with the choir, filling the nave with lilting, slightly out-of-sync singing.

“Crowley, wh—what are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked as he reached him. “Don’t you have a train to catch? Was it you that left that book for me? Do you want it back? Or did something happen to the rose? I can get you another one—”

Aziraphale’s stammered ramblings were replaced by delightful silence as Crowley grabbed him by the edges of his ridiculous stole and pulled him into a kiss.

For a moment Aziraphale just seemed surprised, and then he melted into it, hands finding their way to Crowley’s waist as one of Crowley’s migrated to the side of Aziraphale’s neck, thumb resting on his jaw.

They stayed like that for a long minute, the congregation moving on to a new verse in the hymn, and then Aziraphale gently broke the kiss off, pulling away slightly.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Crowley said in a rushed undertone before Aziraphale could speak, awkwardly moving his hand from Aziraphale’s neck to his shoulder, which seemed like safer territory. “I shouldn’t have run off like that. I just—it’s been a long time since I—since I felt anything like this.”

Before Crowley could even finish, Aziraphale was already shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, please, I get it.”

Crowley felt the part of him that had been weighed down with guilt begin to lighten, and it was incredible to have the load off his shoulders. “Really?”

Aziraphale gave him a sad smile. “Well, you came back, didn’t you? Though…” Aziraphale’s expression shifted to worry. “But what about the rose show? And your train?” Aziraphale moved his hands off Crowley’s waist to check his watch. “You’ll miss it if you’re not quick—”

“Forget about the train,” Crowley dismissed, wondering distantly how much time they had left before the congregation ran out of hymn and Aziraphale would be required again.

Aziraphale gaped at him a little, and it took Crowley a moment to work out what he was so surprised about. “But—the rose show! It’s your third year there, and you need to do…do…networking and sales and things! And you sounded so excited about it…”

“It’s overrated, to be honest,” Crowley said, moving a little closer to Aziraphale and boldly sliding his hand back over to Aziraphale’s neck. “And I’m excited about this, too.”

And he pulled Aziraphale into another kiss.

 

~*~

 

Epilogue

 

“Hmm, hello, my dear,” Aziraphale’s voice murmured from behind Crowley, joined a moment later by Aziraphale’s arms snaking around his waist.

“Don’t you have books to be selling?” Crowley chided, smiling despite himself as he felt Aziraphale prop his head up on Crowley’s shoulder, peering down curiously at where Crowley was carefully pruning one of his rose bushes, shears poised in his hand.

“Those pesky customers can’t buy books if I’m not at the shop,” Aziraphale commented idly, “and you know how inconvenient it is when they buy things.”

“Mmm,” Crowley agreed, returning to his careful pruning. “Lord forbid you should pay your part of the rent.”

“ _Our_ rent,” Aziraphale corrected smugly, nestling his head further into Crowley’s shoulder. “Which is paid for by _our_ rose.”

“Which _I_ look after, breed, market, and sell,” Crowley said mildly, running his thumb gently over one of the rosebuds and already imagining the bloom it would blossom into.

“Yes,” Aziraphale allowed, wrapping his arms further around Crowley’s stomach, “but _I_ keep _you_ company, so that makes it _our_ rose.”

Crowley laughed a little and set down the shears, turning so that he could stretch his arms out over Aziraphale’s shoulders, twining his fingers together and bracing them with his palms outward. “Is that so, angel?”

“It is,” Aziraphale said, planting a tiny kiss on Crowley’s nose.

“I suppose you want to go get some tea?” Crowley asked mildly.

“You know me so well.”

“Before we go,” Crowley said, turning his head to indicate the rose bush behind him, which had grown just as lush and vibrant as its parent, the only other known specimen of this new, previously-undiscovered subspecies, “I think I finally found the perfect name for our rose.”

Aziraphale, already beginning to draw Crowley in the direction of the door to the greenhouse, looked back over at Crowley. “What’s that?”

“Angel’s Kiss.”

Aziraphale paused for a moment, hands stilling on Crowley’s waist. “That’s a good name for a rose.”

“Do you like it?”

Aziraphale smiled, moving one hand to caress Crowley’s cheek, a motion which hadn’t been hampered by the presence of sunglasses for years now. “I do,” he admitted. “Even more so, because it gives me…all sorts of excuses…to do this…”

Crowley decided that this was most definitely an excellent name for a rose.


End file.
